Fall
Leaves fade, plants quiver—
those red and yellow marigolds
curl into frosted brown petals
in the front garden,
that small space facing
the narrow street
on our hill, urban life,
water gurgles through the sewer,
leaves cluster in the culvert,
the season is upon us.
Filling a large brown yard bag
my wife spies a small black
box lying low
beneath dying wild grass—
hunkered down from the cold,
a small black plastic box
we carefully open, remove
the baggie inside
filled with white crystals
individually tied with the corner
of another baggie—
a cache for an unseen
neighbor—a culprit stalks
Bullshit frat dance take 1243
They spring like cannonballs
dancing on a trampoline
out of the past,
full of stories,
they always want to tell the stories
of then
and the space in between,
who they’ve seen—
the 8 martinis with Louie “California”
née Cafrignola
at the Marco Polo Lounge
and 8 glasses of Jack for the storyteller
leading to a late night call to another
brother to see
if he was still alive
or really died
of a heroin overdose
that Fred Conti had said
in ’83
to tell him they were glad he wasn’t dead.
This is their life—
Friday afternoon,
a bottle of Jack tapering down,
the phone so close at hand,
then rummaging
thru the list
dialing up one more character
Marc Swan is a vocational rehabilitation counselor living on Munjoy Hill in Portland Maine, poems coming out this year in Cordite, Cold Mountain Review, Borderlands: The Texas Review, and The Echo Room, among others.
